Hasta La Vista, 2009

I have mixed feelings about 2009, which is probably why I haven't blogged here since the beginning of last year. From most perspectives, 2009 was far better than 2008, the most reviled year I've experienced since the debacle that was 2001, and it brought some surprises I couldn't have anticipated. I halted my fledgling consulting business to take a full-time job, even after I'd vowed never return to the corporate world. But I'm enjoying my new role far more than I could have anticipated, and not just because it has allowed me to travel to Fiji and even take on philanthropic projects, such as brainstorming for NPR and working on a Habitat for Humanity project.

I didn't get to check off as many cities on my to-do list this year as I did in 2008, but, considering I now have to actually show up at an office rather than work from truck stops across the nation, I still managed pretty well. (See below.) I also rode in a Zeppelin (and met Buzz Aldrin at the same time), sailed in a glider plane, participated in a Fijian kava ceremony, survived a trip to Martha's Vineyard as the sole chaperone of four niblings, and somehow inherited a few more nibling-esque family members that have come to visit me.

All in all, a good year. I'm just hoping 2010 is going to be even better.

Warner Springs, CA
Easton, CT
Boulder City, NV/Willow Beach, AZ
Newport, RI

Martha's Vineyard, MA
Las Vegas, NV
San Geronimo, CA
San Francisco, CA
Suva, Fiji
Paso Robles, CA
San Simeon, CA
Monterey, CA
Albany, NY
San Diego, CA

New Hope: Been There, Done That

I've been hearing about the quaint little burg of New Hope for years, but something has always seemed to get in the way of my visiting. Not so this time. With no boss bellowing for me to return to a prison-like cube and five months to spend on the East Coast, I finally got to visit one of the cities that Forbes Traveler recently named one of America's Prettiest Towns.

With niblings in tow, I packed up Eartha Kitt and set my GPS for New Hope, population 2,252 (per the 2000 census). We planned to spend the day strolling charming boutique-lined streets, taking in the autumn foliage, and then heading to Shady Brook Farms for some pumpkin and apple pickin'.

I'd expected New Hope to be charming, but I didn't quite anticipate its unique hybrid of historic cuteness and hip anti-conformism. The first indication that we wouldn't be greeted by minutemen and Betsy Ross wannabes came in the form of a surreal statue, which the niblings and I deemed a cat on acid. It has ears like a cat and a rather cat-like posture, if said cat were having its ass scratched, so high was its overly elongated tail in the air, but there was also something inherently un-catlike about it, something less whimsical Seuss and more opium-smoking Poe. (If anyone has any idea what this animal is actually supposed to be, please tell me. We're dying to know.) After taking a few pictures with the un-cat and the un-cat's bunghole, we moved on down the street to the canal museum, unmanned and amusingly tiny. We took a gander at the mule-less canal, now choked with duckweed and cat tails as it undergoes renovation. Quentin, remembering what he'd learned about canals from our Toronto trip, impressed me by pointing out the locks. (I have to remember to show him this site tomorrow.)

The first few shops we encountered were closer to the New Hope of my mind, including a year-round Christmas store and a handmade purse boutique, complete with punny name (The Bag Lady). We perused a bit but soon grew bored with a holiday too far off to provide any instant gratification. As we ambled lazily down the sidewalk, we had a bit of a shock when a woman, her hand covered in her own blood, streaked past us, her eyes glazed with fear. I spun some story to ease the kids' own fright, then kept walking, only to run into the same woman emerging from a restaurant moments later, her hand still dripping scarlet. This time, I decided to be more of a role model and told her to take a deep breath before asking if she needed me to call 911 and reminding her to apply pressure. But apparently my heroism was a little late, because a moment later the restaurant manager came out with cloths for her to press against her wound.

I hurried the kids along, trying to divert their minds from the pre-Halloween gore by pointing out the lush foliage, distinctive architecture, and the Mansion Inn (after my trip to Newport and, most notably, Belcourt Castle, "mansion" seemed a misnomer for this comparatively teensy dwelling). We finally found a worthy distraction in a medieval-themed store brimming with suits of armor, metal brassieres, and swords taller than my nephew. Although the prices were more than reasonable (a hand-crafted knife for $20!), I decided against buying weapons for children and instead took them to gaze at the horrific display of Chucky-inspired gore in the window of an adults-only store. Much more appropriate.

That's what shocked me most about New Hope. Although it's steeped in history and the arts -- every other shop at the far end of Main Street was an overpriced gallery -- New Hope definitely has a kinky, non-comformist side. Now that I've seen it myself, I realize that's probably what my friends were trying to convey when they gawked about my never having visited, especially since the town seemed "made for me" and "right up my alley." There were at least three stores that the niblings wouldn't be able to enter for at least another eight years, and several more that probably should have had similar warnings.

Luckily, their favorite stop turned out to be Farley's Bookshop, an independent seller with the requisite creaky floors and even a feline mascot but, sadly, no musty old books for me to pine over. After buying reading material for the kids (Fablehaven for Carly, another edition of Captain Underpants for Quentin) and skipping rocks on the banks of the Delaware in the shadow of passing paddleboats, we decided to ditch our historic train ride so we could spend the maximum amount of time on the farm, whose website promised all sorts of autumnal fun.

We should have done the train ride. Shady Brook Farms was, let's just say, a tad disappointing. If the admission fee had been more than $10, I probably would have asked for--no, demanded--my money back. The haunted house was little more than a gross-out fest, far less frightening than it was nauseating (thanks in part to a toilet full of poo in the blood-splattered bathroom). Only two of the big-kid carts on the SPF 500 Racetrack worked, and with no one to monitor the gaggle of children, I practically had to yank off two cart-bogarting kids so my dear, sweet, patient niblings could have a turn. The corn maze had terribly marked "clues" planted about, and because it too was unmonitored, we could easily still be in there if I hadn't cheated our way out, since no one saw us enter and the sunlight was rapidly fading. Even the hayride... wasn't. There wasn't a straw of hay to be found on the tractor ride to the pumpkin patch. The upside is we did leave with decent pumpkins, and the pig and dachshund races were delightful, if only because Carly got chosen to wave the checkered flag and act like a starting bell at the beginning of each race.

The kicker came when we went to go apple picking, which Quentin had been waiting for all day. It took nearly half an hour to find the unmarked orchards, even though they were only a quarter mile and two turns away. For those looking, it's a right at the mailboxes (not the stoplight), through the drive between the two white buildings, down the dirt road to the left, and conveniently located next to an apiary. Yes, a whole swarm of beehives. Very convenient for pollinating apples, but not very convenient for picking them. As seemed to be the theme of the day, the orchard too was unmonitored, so we had no one to ask what we could pick or where we would pay. So we simply left, leaving Quentin feeling unfulfilled. Damn you, Shady Brook Farms!

I bet if you ask the kids a year from now what they remember most about the trip, they'll say the bloody-armed woman, the toilet of horrors, and the pig races. Such is the mind of a child. At least, that's what stands out to me.

Zip-Lining: Adventures in Trees (Montreal, Day 4)

Home again. Well, home for the twins, anyway. I'm currently in my sister's basement recovering from the nine-hour (including the hour wait in customs) ride back from Montreal, my neck still in a crick from my trapeze pratfall. I'm looking forward to some shut eye before diving into the pile of work awaiting me.

We left Montreal at what felt like the butt-crack of dawn, considering how late we've been sleeping in, and completed the one-hour drive west to Rigaud with time to spare. Despite the nap in the car, the twins, I knew, were ecstatic to finally be going on the zip-line, which they'd been looking forward to ever since I first made their itinerary months ago. Now, despite each one having been penalized nearly half an hour for some less-than-savory behavior, they would finally get the chance to see what all the fuss was about.

Compared to Arbraska's Barrie, Ontario, location, the Rigaud park is far larger and more diverse in its offerings. Had I been able to move my neck, I would have had a blast. Instead, I sat out and contented myself with getting embarrassing video footage for the montage for the twins' b'nai mitzvah next year.

After finishing the beginners' course, the kids moved onto L'Aigle, a course consisting purely of zip-lines, including a 750-footer and one that stretched over the golden fields of an open meadow, where groundhogs scurried for cover whenever a zip-liner screeched past overhead. Only a few reminders to keep their legs straight and to steer with their hands, and they were flying through the canopies like pros.

When their aunt-allotted time was almost up, we found the Tarzan Rope, a one-game course that consisted of hurling yourself off a platform into space, sailing across the void on the aforementioned rope, and grabbing the cargo net on the other side. After my trapeze experience, I doubt I would have been so brave as to voluntarily propel myself off a 25-foot platform face-first into a net. But they both did it, even if Micaela did flail about for a moment before finding foot purchase. (See snort-inducing video below.)

Before any of us realized it, we had to head home. Not only were we dreading the ride, but the twins were especially not looking forward to returning to school the following day. At the end of our trip, we were a little slaphappy, and while recapping some of the weekend's highlights over lunch, we were pleased to find the small cafe empty, as we couldn't help cackling hysterically over the horrible waitress from the day before. Just saying, "I'll give you a tip" caused the two to fall into uncontrollable fits of laughter.

The line at the border was far longer than when we'd come through a few nights earlier (we were the only ones crossing at midnight), but the interrogation was far less harsh, and this time the kids were prepared for such questions as "How is this woman related to you?" and "What is your mother's last name?" (The latter threw Micaela off, since Ilene often still uses her maiden name.)

But we made it through, and I spent the rest of the ride telling stories about airhead students, redhead rivalries, and misadventures abroad. Before nodding off, the twins bounced around ideas as to where we should go on our next adventure, their heads dreaming up grandiose voyages on foreign continents. They balked at my idea of youth hostels, but train travel appealed to Carter. Micaela seemed to only be satisfied with staying in high-end hotels, no matter how much we extolled the virtues of a sleeping car on rails.

But that's all at least another year away. They're still digesting their memories of Montreal. And I've yet to recover from the trapeze -- or our Egg-spectation waitress.







Day 1: An Egg-cellent Journée Dans La Ville
Day 2: Merde! Trapeze Drama
Day 3: A Day in Old Montreal
Day 4: Zip-Lining: Adventures in Trees

A Day in Old Montreal (Montreal, Day 3)

Damn if my sister didn't come up with the best idea of the trip: dangling the carrot of zip-lining to keep the kids in line. With that in mind, I purposely planned that activity as the last of the trip (not to mention it's out of town and thus requires driving) and have threatened penalties of 10-15 minutes off trekking time for infractions ranging from stepping on my toe (still swollen from yesterday's trapeze mishap) to sassy mouths. As of right now, Carter has been penalized 25 minutes and Micaela 15. They're on their best behavior in the hopes of earning back some time before the all-important event tomorrow.

Our return to the hotel this evening has been incredibly serene, with each nibling trying desperately to keep his or her temper in check and to not, under any circumstances, make me have to repeat myself twice. They're both also trying to figure out just how this time penalization will work, but I'm purposely remaining mysterious. Aside from a slightly surly Micaela when I mention her homework ("Mom said I can do it in the morning and be late for school. Mom said."), it's been rather pleasant. I must think of a way to enact such a system more often.

The kids have even gotten into a little bit of Montreal's green spirit. They were fascinated when I pointed out the two buttons on the top of the toilet -- one of #1, one for #2 -- and they even agreed to reuse their towels more than once, as per the hotel's suggestion card. Only problem is, the Embassy Suites doesn't seem to be following its own guidelines, as we've found fresh towels in our room no matter how many we leave on the rack.

This morning we returned to Eggspectation, with visions of delectable breakfast goodies dancing in our heads. But our experience this time was quite a let-down. Our waitress didn't seem to understand French or English, and our wait was far longer than our first wonderful visit Friday. At least we knew it wasn't just us, because we heard other patrons around us muttering their discontent. But our meals -- once they finally came -- were delectable and left us full for our busy day. Plus the kids got a kick out of making fun of our incompetent waitress for the rest of the day. The old chestnut "I'll give you a tip: Don't eat yellow snow," had them in stitches. Even recycled jokes can enjoy a second life.

Our day's plans consisted mainly of Old Montreal and the quais, which all lay within walking distance of the hotel. First stop: Montreal Science Center, which had lured us with its exhibition of aliens. The main attraction turned out to be on the lame side, but all of us had a blast in the Science 26 area, a hands-on cavalcade that demonstrated the best of chemistry, physics, biology, and even telekinesis, the last of which was done via Mindball, a game in which you move a ball with your mind.

As impressed as we were with the ingenious games for demonstrating complex concepts -- a pillow bridge that demonstrated the strength of the keystone, a lever that lets you lift 113 kilograms (249 pounds), a mobile of space shuttles powered by the sun -- we were surprised by the lack of explanation. Just how do you move a ball with your mind -- and are you supposed to be pushing or pulling it? How do you get the vortex going? And why the heck is every third exhibit broken? The biggest disappointment was finding the tightrope bicycle closed.

Just a few wharfs away was the Labyrinth at Shed 16, an indoor maze set up in an abandoned hangar on Quai de l'Horloge. I'd read that we should prepare to spend at least an hour in there, maybe more, and we arrived with just that much time left in the day. After a rather poorly acted video introduction, we were set loose in the maze, which consisted of tarp panels for walls and the odd obstacle here and there. Four different rooms in the labyrinth contained riddles that, once solved and put together, would help us solve the overall mystery set forth in the video.

Carter immediately took charge, forging ahead and shouting to us whenever he encountered a dead end, then heading back and quickly finding a new trail to blaze. The three of us got stuck going in a circle for a good 20 minutes before one of the labyrinth's residents pointed us in the right direction.

I've never seen a maze of its kind. Even the Dole Pineapple hedge maze -- reportedly the large hedge maze in the world -- pales in comparison, both in size and difficulty. Aside from a few features that would leave them open to lawsuits if they were stateside, I'm not sure why there's nothing like this back in the U.S. Once again, Montreal succeeded in outdoing itself.

For our final night in town, we celebrated with a pleasant meal at one of the least touristy restaurants we could find in that part of town, during which I let Micaela and Carter in on a few little secrets and told them stories that might get me in trouble down the road but tonight made for a memorable evening of bonding. To get even more brownie points in their favor, they even indulged me in sitting trough a full-length screening of the 3D U2 IMAX film playing at the science center.

They're sleeping soundly now, as I too should be, as the alarm is set for the butt-crack of dawn so that we can get to the zip-line in time.


Day 1: An Egg-cellent Journée Dans La Ville
Day 2: Merde! Trapeze Drama
Day 3: A Day in Old Montreal
Day 4: Zip-Lining: Adventures in Trees

Merde! Trapeze Drama (Montreal, Day 2)

I would have said that there couldn't be two more excited twiblings than those with me this morning, but I'd have to eat my words come Monday, when we finally go zip-lining. Today, however, was the second most anticipated event of the trip.

After a quick (and complimentary!) breakfast at our hotel, we hopped aboard the metro at Place d'Armes and headed in the direction of the Olympic stadium, bound for flying lessons. The twiblings were a little put off by the neighborhood -- slightly industrial and a little run down in the few residential parts -- but they soon forgot all that upon arriving at the rock-climbing gym, an enormous cavern of a warehouse that's the largest of its kind I've seen. Admittedly, I've seen only a few, but I've been noticing that Montrealers don't do things half-assed. From the multi-story laser-tag arena to top-notch meals, most everything we've experienced has been above par. Except for one glaring exception this afternoon.

Folllowing a few-minute briefing, the Trapezium staff strapped us into our harnesses so we could climb the 30 some-odd feet into the air where we were to propel ourselves off a platform via a trapeze. The niblings went first in our group, as they'd been giddy with anticipation all morning. Carter soared off into the air and was immediately able to hang upside-down by his knees, landing in the net with the greatest of ease. Micaela also was off to a commendable start, with her belayer continuously commenting on her cuteness. I, however, could barely get my legs up above my head and never made it to the hanging position. The best I could manage was a backflip.

After watching the twins progress, I climbed the ladder a third time. The platform instructor gave me a few pointers, then launched me into space -- through which I plummeted face first into the net below. I lay stunned for a moment, then clutched my nose when I felt it grow warm, half expecting blood to start pouring out. My limbs were shaken, and I swear my brain rattled about in my skull at impact, because I felt a headache coming on, and I can count the number of headaches I've ever had on both hands. To add injury to more injury, I gashed my foot on a bolt in the floor moments later.

My belayer, Isabelle, brought me to the restroom to wash up and apply cold compresses. But I was miffed. I hadn't slowed at all during my descent, which meant she hadn't done her job of belaying. As I reviewed the rope burns on my nose and upper lip, she said, "I didn't know you were going to fall!" Uh, seriously? Neither did I! But isn't that why she was there? I completely expected to fall or muff up at some point, but I also expected that the staff was competent enough to be prepared for such mishaps and that they'd employ their skills to help prevent any unnecessary injuries.

Aside from that one half-assed employee, the rest of the staff were phenomenal, and I wouldn't have let the niblings continue if she'd still been in charge of the belay. But they switched off after that mishap, and the rest of the session went trouble free. In fact, both Micaela and Carter succeeded at performing the full routine, which included a hand-exchange to the "catch" on the other trapeze. Talk about a confidence booster! (See video below.)

Another quick metro ride brought us to the Parc Olympique itself, home of the Biodome, which my friend Stefan (husband to Véro) informed me was the former cycling pavilion for the 1976 Olympics. Quebec should have left it empty. The new, unwitting inhabitants of the eco-sounding Biodome are crammed into exhibits more fitting for hamsters and gerbils than creatures of their size. Otters have what amounts to a bathtub for swimming. A penguin colony of several dozen lives behind glass in a space no bigger than an elementary classroom. And the poor bobcats were so depressed with their abode that they expressed their discontent by pacing in circles as they carried their food in their mouths. Shame on you, Canada. I thought you had more respect for animals than to treat them like this. I was embarrassed that I'd subjected the kids to the experience.

Our next stop was Mont Royal, where we met up with Véro and Stefan, our guides to the local neighborhood for the evening. When Micaela piped up that she wanted to try French food, Carter wrinkled his nose, and I almost gave in since his sister had had her way the night before when we'd gone to Vietnamese. But when Véro announced that she knew of a place that had both French and Carter-friendly cuisine, we decided it would be worth the 10-minute walk, even though we were already quite tired.

Over political and internationally peppered conversation, we enjoyed our eclectic meals, with both Micaela and Carter scarfing down their veal and salmon. The kids enjoyed my and Véro's stories from way back -- hitchhiking in Normandie, barhopping in Westchester, etc. -- although I think they got lost when Stefan and I got a little didactic with our Bush bashing. But I'd needed a little adult conversation, and the kids readily complied for their bruised and battered aunt. They'd behaved so well, in fact -- no doubt partly due to empathizing with my injuries -- that I complimented them on their behavior when we got back to the hotel, and I asked if they could keep it up just a couple more days.

One can only dream.





Day 1: An Egg-cellent Journée Dans La Ville
Day 2: Merde! Trapeze Drama
Day 3: A Day in Old Montreal
Day 4: Zip-Lining: Adventures in Trees

An Egg-cellent Journée Dans La Ville (Montreal: Day 1)

Having survived the eight-hour car ride with twin preteens, I woke this morning to a surprising sound: the alarm clock. I'd expected to awaken to the same bickering chatter that had prompted me, somewhere in the bleak darkness of the Adirondacks, to stop the car and threaten to turn it around all the way back to Connecticut. But instead, Carter was still in the living room on the fold-out, obediently watching television at an unbelievably acceptable level, and Micaela awoke at the same time I did. So far, so good.

Our bellies grumbling from not having eaten almost 18 hours earlier at The Village Oven in West Stockbridge, Mass., we hurried over to Eggspectation, a breakfast joint I'd found recommended on several restaurant sites. Before they'd even finished their meal, Carter and Micaela were asking if we could return every morning so that we might attempt to sample all the various other dishes that had caught their eye. We've succeeded in gorging ourselves on strawberry-flambé pancakes, yogurt-and-honey-dolloped cinnamon brioches, and eggs and latkes -- not to mention the appetizers and smoothies -- but there are still kiwi pancakes, bagels dorés, and various other fast-breaking morsels to try. Plus, it's only a block away from our hotel. Micaela wasn't kidding when she said she was looking forward to experiencing Montreal's culinary wonders.

We began our exploration of the city with a stop at the nearby Notre-Dame Basilica, a cathedral smaller than its Parisian namesake but every bit as worthwhile to visit. I have to admit that I never thought I'd see a kid floored by architecture, especially religious architecture, but my nephew couldn't take enough pictures, and he repeatedly remarked on the attention to detail. His impression impressed me.

After a stroll around Old Montreal and a stop for all-natural sorbet, we headed over to the famed Underground City, a 19-mile network of subterranean shops and businesses that allow residents and tourists an escape from the region's often brutal weather, particularly in winter. Once again the twiblings (the twin niblings) showed an uncanny appreciation for structural engineering, noting several times the efficient use of space as well as how cool it was. (It didn't quite reach the level of "awesome.") Micaela picked up some rather nifty Ugg knockoffs and a sweatshirt for back-to-school wear, but Carter didn't fare so well and left empty-handed. After seeing their wardrobes though, I'm not shedding a tear.


Off to dinner we hurried, meeting my friend and Normandie hitchhiking pal Véro in the Quartier Latin, which I'd described to the twiblings as Montreal's Greenwich Village, not realizing they were still unfamiliar with New York's neighborhoods. I convinced Carter to try Vietnamese food, and he wolfed down his plate, while Micaela was thrilled to have the chance to order red curry, which she'd first tried during last summer's visit to LA. Véro and I then regaled them with a few stories from our Westchester County years, spicing it up more than we would have had the parents been there, but leaving out enough juicy tidbits to be able to retell the tales when the kids are older.


Although it was past their normal bedtime, the twiblings got to add one last item to the day's agenda, mainly because Aunt Jenn wanted to do it too: Laser Quest. (Note to Laser Quest managers: Your website is sorely lacking. I'm available for hire.) So on we went to the Métro -- which Micaela noted was similar to D.C.'s, only slightly cleaner -- and mere moments later we were being shown onto the blacklighted playground. Both Carter and Micaela weren't laser tag virgins like me, but even they were impressed with the field layout: a multi-storied maze with boundless nooks and crannies from which to snipe your enemies. Had they not already been dog-tired, I'm sure they would have gone another round, but it was late, and we have one of the most anticipated stops of the trip tomorrow: Trapezium. Cross your fingers I come back with both patellas intact.

Day 1: An Egg-cellent Journée Dans La Ville
Day 2: Merde! Trapeze Drama
Day 3: A Day in Old Montreal
Day 4: Zip-Lining: Adventures in Trees

PA's Best-Kept Secret? Knoebels

I've hit Hershey and done Dorney, but it wasn't until my family had lived in Pennsylvania for more than a decade that I'd even heard of Knoebels. (Hint to fellow outsiders: The K isn't silent.)

My sister swore that this was the best theme park she'd ever been to -- no so much for the rides (which are great, but we'll get to that), but because admission is free. On select days, you can buy a pay-one-price bracelet, but for the most part, you just pay as you go, with tickets to rides costing a reasonable $.50 to $2.00, or thereabouts. Don't want to ride? Don't pay. That means that scaredy-cats and others who won't be riding don't have to pay some exorbitant fee just for the pleasure of spending a day out with the loved ones. Drag Granny along! Just leave her in the shade and water her regularly so she doesn't expire, and then the whole family can have a grand time. They even allow outside food and provide a picnic area with grills. Hospitality -- what a novel concept!

Shade -- that's the other key component to Knoebels' greatness. Rather than clearcut a forest to make way for the The Whipper and The Phoenix (originally located in San Antonio, where it was known as The Rocket), Knoebels' founding family saw to it that the rides were built around the trees. Today, guests stroll tree-shaded paths to get from one ride to the next, and there's little worry of heat-stroke in the lines, which on the Memorial Weekend we visited were never more than 45 minutes, and that was the longest of them. Perhaps the shortness of the lines could be attributed to guests not finding the place -- even the Knoebels site admits that Internet mapping services have trouble locating the park.

Knoebels' origins stretch back to the early 1800s, but it wasn't until the 1920s that the true amusement foundations were laid. (Check out the early history -- pretty interesting to see what accounted as "amusement" back in the day.) While newer, more high-tech rides are being added (can't wait to see what the bobsled-like Flying Turns will be like when it opens), it's the quaint, old-school relics that lend Knoebels its charm, and which continue to entertain even ADD-addled pre-teens.

Case in point: The aforementioned Whipper. The creaky ride looks as if it had been powered by mules in the past, so simple is the roundabout construction. Cars simply travel in a neverending circle, "whipping" around corners for a brief burst of excitement. Tame, even by pacemaker standards. The Flyer, in comparison, still has old-school roots but has somehow managed to avoid the scrutiny of ride inspectors. Not that there's anything inherently dangerous in this throwback attraction, but the mere fact that there's a ride you can steer clear into the surrounding trees makes me wonder if the lawyers have visited the grounds lately. My niblings loved it, especially when their craft would sail through the gap in the branches created by the thousands of other daredevils who had aimed for the heavens.

In addition to the classic rides and carousel museum, which displayed some critters not normally known as tot-friendly vehicles (Care to ride the snarling pig, anyone?), Knoebels has a spate of statues, signs, and buildings whose simplicity and provincialism make you snort soda through your nose even while you quell that pang of longing for yesteryear. Unlike at other theme parks, there doesn't seem to be a single mascot (unless you count the Halvoline "character" in the parking lot, which you shouldn't -- ever), so Knoebels has festooned the park with vikings, anthropomorphized corn, and a hodgepodge of other characters that must have spelled "Fun!" to the park's founding fathers. How can you not love a place where Cornelius the corn cob beckons you to enjoy the fare at the world food court?

For a deeper look into the Keystone State's hidden gem, check out Offroaders.com.

Sin Chicas, Silencio (Los Angeles, Day 7)

My cell phone is broken. A conspicous brown spot has appeared on the backseat of my once spotless six-month-old car. A fine film of sand covers the entire flooring surface of my home. There's gum on my wall.

But quiet has returned to my home. I'm not exactly sure how I feel about that. I wouldn't necessarily say that quiet is better.

When I said goodbye to the chicas at the airport, I felt unexpectedly choked up. I was going to miss their crazy ramen songs and impersonations of impersonations of celebrities. I would no longer be peppered with questions about politics, environmentalism, or Greek mythology in the most unusual of surroundings. I'd also have to go back to work, dagnabbit.

I hope the chicas have taken with them lots of memories that they'll cherish for years to come. For me, my favorite memory was when the two embraced me out of nowhere and stared up at me with impish grins. When I asked what they were up to, they just shrugged and said, "Nothing, we just wanted to hug you."

"I'm going to enjoy this moment," I said gazing down at them as they snuggled closer while still wriggling with pre-teen antsiness. "In a few years, you're going to hate me." Why is that? they asked, such a thought still inconceivable. "Because most teenagers have disdain" -- they'd already heard this word many times on their trip -- "for adults. I did."

"That won't happen," Micaela insisted, shaking her head emphatically. "You're just a big kid."

I'll remind her of that sentence the first time she rolls her eyes when I offer advice. Oh, wait...

Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family (Los Angeles, Day 6)

Las Super Chicas are slowing down, their seemingly limitless energy giving way to sleeping in and returning home early to see what movie Aunt Jenn can surprise them with next. We started our day late, with breakfast at my old haunt, Jinky's in Santa Monica, where we met up with the notorious Lenatic and her outrageous cackle. After scarfing our brunch ("I can't believe how much these two eat!" exclaimed a not-easily-impressed Lena), las super chicas were introduced to Rocky McDoodle, Lena's trusty red chow.

Next we headed across town to the La Brea Tar Pits (which translates, redundantly, as "The the tar tar pits"). The chicas couldn't believe that there was still trouble brewing beneath the surface, as evidenced by the gurgling bubbles -- and the stench. We watched the mammoth statues float on the tarry surface, then headed over to the excavation pit, where workers painstakingly cleared fossil specimens one speck of dust at a time. Not exactly a dream job for any of the three ADD super chicas.

A quick drive in Eartha KITT (our beloved chariot) brought us back to Hollywood and Highland, where we parked and headed through the maddened crowd of muggles awaiting the arrival of the stars of the Harry Potter franchise. Las super chicas had no interest in anything Potter, even though the eldest is, like, a huge fan and would have been thrilled to catch a real-life glimpse of any of the actors. Alas, she had to settle for watching the tops of their heads bob through the Hollywood Boulevard crowd before ducking into the El Capitan for the Ratatouillespectacle, where my friend Marilyn joined us belatedly. The pre-show consisted of the requisite organ playing followed by several live dance numbers starring some of the most popular Disney characters. The film itself didn't impress the younger chicas as much as the pre-show and the theater itself.

We had a few minutes to duck into stores for souvenirs, then, because we hadn't eaten enough all day, we headed to the Valley to meet up with some of Jessica's family and some of my friends. Along the way, we picked up my pal McK, whom the girls fell in love with due to their mutual tastes in music and television (Avril Lavigne, American Idol, etc.). Once at the Pomorodoin Sherman Oaks, we enjoyed a lovely meal with Jessica's aunt, uncle, and cousins, as well as my surrogate family, Julie and Tyler. As McK watched the girls' ramen dance and non-stop chatter, he turned to me and said, "You've survived five days of this?" His is a lifestyle that moves at a much slower pace than water slides and roller coasters.

After bidding farewell to blood and surrogate families alike, we traveled over the Hollywood Hills to return McK to his home, las super chicas entertaining from the backseat by regurgitating various pop-culture shows. They then asked the question that would seal McK, who knew the answer, as their favorite person of the whole trip. "Do you know where Paris Hilton lives?" Las super chicas claim to hate Paris, but their unwavering fascination with her and their desire to spend money on merchadise with her likeness say otherwise. Now they insisted that their eagerness to see the Hilton homestead was because they wanted to toss eggs, which wasn't about to happen on my watch. We did, however, drive by 1467 N. Kings Road, while the girls protested ever more loudly how much they despised the heiress. Yeah, okay.

After dropping McK home, we returned to Playa del Rey and I forced the girls to shower -- no way were they waking me at 5:30AM with showers and hair dryers. While one cleaned up, the other, supposedly, packed, but there were still personal belongings strewn about the living room when we finally turned out the lights and the last of the giggles were suppressed.

Video: The Ramen Dance


Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

I Think They're Turning Japanese (Los Angeles, Day 5)

"Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." This is the movie quote du jour that las chicas learned.

We spent a rather relaxing day, compared to the previous ones. My shark-diving pal Patric hooked me up with his fishing buddy at the Aquarium of the Pacific, where we got a behind-the-scenes tour. We started out with an up-close shark feeding, where bull sharks, zebra sharks, sawfish, and other toothy pelagics swirled about to get their daily nibbles. Then Steve took us back to the main quarantine area, where we saw animals awaiting their turn to be put on exhibit, or simply enjoying life as they couldn't out in the open ocean. One in particular was a blind sea lion, who would have been Purina shark chow himself had he not been taken into captivity.

We got quick peeks at the animal food prep area, the diver staging area, and then onto the above-tank viewing area, where we looked down upon the ginormous exhibition tanks that all the hoi polloi could see only from below. Then Steve asked what the chicas' favorite animal is, to which they answered, "Sea horses!" Moments later, the girls' grins were wider than a porpoise's as they saw the hundreds of miniature sea horses, some less than a day old, galloping around in their tanks. We even saw leafy and weedy sea dragons, relatives to the sea horses but more like silky plants, say las chicas. Perhaps the thoughts of ramen are finally getting to them: Like Japanese tourists, they viewed much of the aquarium through the camera viewfinders on their cell phones.

After our VIP treatment, we headed back to join the masses, this time viewing the exhibits with the commoners. The girls were excited to finally meet Rungus, the binturong I'd told them smells like popcorn and looks like a cross between a cat and a monkey, complete with whiskers and prehensile tail. But their favorite part was the lorikeet exhibit, where dozens of the brightly colored birds fly free in an enclosure, even landing on guests bearing cups of nectar. Las chicas so adored this part of the aquarium that we returned after the first movie, and skipped a longer viewing of the puffins and sea otters. Actually, I take that back. Their favorite part of the aquarium was, of course, the gift shop, where they spent the better part of 40 minutes.

We strolled the boardwalk a little bit, taking in such sites as the Queen Mary and lighthouse in the distance. Then we headed north to sate their hunger for the legendary ramen, which they haven't been able to get out of their heads ever since I mentioned it the first day. They asked what flavors were better, Oriental or Roast Chicken, and they were shocked to learn that those would not be options at Ramenya. When they got the menu, they had trouble deciding what they wanted, unable to find anything that would satisfy them both, since they'd be sharing the vat of soup between them. When the bowls finally arrived, they couldn't believe how big they were. The chicas' stomachs had finally met their match.

Then home we headed for a viewing of The Princess Bride, which went over well, despite having to rewind multiple times so they could pick up on key plot points. Their questioning and interruptions were nicely complemented by those of the grandson in the film, whom they wisely chose not to criticize.

Now they're performing minor surgery on each other's blisters in preparation for an early night to bed. Then they'll have to produce either a thank-you note (for Patric and Steve) or a journal entry before they get their nightly bedtime myth, which they now beg for.

Only one day left, and still a few fun places to squeeze in.

Videos:
Sea Horses and Cell Phones
Coral Crab Research
Sharks-to-Be

Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

Disneyland and California Misadventure (Los Angeles, Day 4)

I bet someone could make a bazillion dollars selling a book on how to kill time on theme park lines. For me, the saving grace for these hours in the sun has been that I've been rereading Edith Hamilton's Mythology and regurgitating while we queue up behind 40,000 other park visitors. Who knew that stories 2,000 years old could keep kids entertained? Since I used up most of the stories at Raging Waters, I had to fall back on the Trojan war. So yesterday, Las Super Chicas (they've been upgraded from the pedestrian "Las Chicas") learned about Ulysses and the great wooden horse and, when those stories were over, the great wooden rabbit from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. (When they get back, ask them what the three most common sources for literal allusions are. I don't think they've realized they're actually begging to hear stories that they're going to complain about reading in school.)

In the mornings, the Super-Slow Chicas take their sweet time writing in their journals (they're currently two days behind), showering (my whole home smells like eau de theme park), and marrying their Tamagotchis. When we finally get moving a few hours later, they look at me as if I'm the cause for our tardiness. Since I'm not big on repeating myself, I'll stand near the door without opening it while they gaze up at me with eyes that say, "I know we're forgetting something. But we can't remember what!" Then Jessica will remember that the butter is still out or Micaela will run back to scoop a wet towel off the couch. After a few more minutes of my silent game, we're finally ready to leave.

Yesterday's culinary adventure was Thai, which Micaela still calls "thigh" but which she now loves. (They both still beg me to take them to "raymon," aka ramen.) First course: chicken-stuffed wontons with semi-spicy Thai sweet sauce. Verdict: Empty plate in less than four minutes. Second course: LSC shared their own concoction of glass noodles, broccoli, and chicken, having balked at the crazy Thai veggies listed on the menu. They knocked all this back with a shared Thai iced tea, which Jessica declared "smoke in a glass." Third course: coconut sticky rice and fresh mango. Overall verdict on Thai: "I don't think they have this in Connecticut," said Jessica. I assured them there was indeed Thai in the Constitution State, but the mango might not be as fresh.

Then we were off for the glorious kingdom of Anaheim. Las Super-Slow Chicas made insinuations that we weren't going to have enough time at the park, since it was after three. But seeing how tired they'd been the day before after only five hours at Raging Waters, I thought this would be the best course of action, now that the hottest part of the day was over and we'd be safely out of the triple digits on the thermometer.

On Disneyland's Main Street, I pointed out the only permanent religious object in the whole park: a mezzuzah. Stories vary as to why it's there, but I thought the kids would get a kick out of it.

After waiting in line for our 200th ride, Micaela commented that "people are looking at us." No kidding. It may have been something to do with the fact I was quite probably the only person in the park entertaining her charges with ancient mythology. Or perhaps it was because those around us had overheard my decree that any chica who does acrobatics inline or who bumps into a stranger gets flicked in the forehead. I could see total strangers mentally willing the chicas to forget their surroundings so they would bump into the disaffected emo boy behind us or the super-cute surfer boy in front -- everyone wanted to see some flickin' action. And guess who finally gave them the satisfaction. Yup, none other than Super-Chica Haas, who ran head-on into the stringbean surfer, who in turn looked both excited to see what would happen and embarrassed that he'd been part of the cause. When Micaela ducked her head to keep from getting flicked, she instead received two sharp pinches to the gluteus maximus (or "glucius maximus," as she calls it).

Micaela's look of disdain is legendary, perhaps even more so than the story of the Trojan horse. But one way to wipe it from her smarmy face is to threaten to record it forever with a camera. Presto! Instant giggles.

After just three days, Las Super Chicas are already speaking like me (prepare yourselves, parents). They've taken my habit of switching around words (e.g., "muffins of English") to create their own sayings, my favorite being Jessica's "pul of ap" for "apples." They've also taken up singing songs about my cats, using "fluffy" as a synonym for "great," and talking like Pee-Wee Herman (sorry for that last one).

Screaming on the Maliboomer

Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

Raging Waters, Raging Chicas (Los Angeles, Day 3)

America's Funniest Home Videos would do well to place a permanent camera on the Flowrider attraction at Raging Waters. As we waited in line, those before us provided some much-needed diversion in the 95-degree Valley heat, but it was two tweens in particular who had the crowd in hysterics. Micaela lasted a few seconds before she was tossed back like a ragdoll in the spray. Jessica lasted a little longer, but got caught up in an eddy where she spun around like a dreidel before her board got sucked away.

Had I not hurt myself after the very first ride (slipping on a mat), I would have tried the Flowrider, too, which I'm sure would have made for footage that would have kept Ilene in hysterics at least until Micaela's high school graduation. But, alas, I had to sit out a few rides until my pulled muscle felt a tad better, then I rejoined the girls in aquatic antics.

While waiting on a ride with Poseidon as the mascot, I began telling las chicas some Greek myths, mainly to keep them from singing, as they had on the other lines, and also to keep them from trying line acrobatics on the crowd-control barriers. They couldn't get enough of the stories, so if we have a chance, I'll stop by a bookstore and see if I can find a book that might interest them. I considered renting Clash of the Titans, but I don't think they'd be able to get past the ancient animation style, so they'd probably bore quickly.




Jessica: Take 1
Micaela (Picking a Wedgie): Take 2
Jessica: You Have to See It to Believe It
Micaela: Revenge of the Flowrider
Las Chicas Gritando

Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

Las Super Chicas in Santa Monica and at the Hollywood Bowl (Los Angeles, Day 2)

We started off the day way early -- too early, some might say. The girls, still jetlagged, awoke before 6AM, an inhuman time by my standards, but they were good and kept as quiet as possible. We finished watching our movie from the night before, then got ready to hit the beach. First we headed to the Santa Monica Farmers' Market to stock up on supplies for the Hollywood Bowl later that evening. Jessica and Micaela couldn't believe they were actually allowed to sample items, and we spent quite a bit of time at one cheese stall in particular, trying several varieties of gouda, from mild to sharp, jalapeno to herbs & spices (we bought the medium). I also introduced them to the best darn guac in the country, Holy Guacamole, and the two loved it so much that we bought a container for our picnic. Cheremoya, kumquats, and a slew of other fruits and veggies were also sampled.

Although they opted not to try the savory crepes, we did go back to Acadie for dessert (strawberry and chocolate crepes), after trying Baja Fresh, where we lined up every type of salsa available for a taste test. Since we only had a limited amount of time (and energy), I gave them a choice between visiting the Santa Monica Pier, with its overpriced and lame rides, or Venice Beach. All I had to do was say "shopping" and the latter was chosen. After driving around for half an hour looking for a spot (no way was I going to pay $30 to park, even on the Fourth), we left Eartha Kitt (my beloved Prius) in the Venice Canals, where we happened upon a makeshift boat parade, including two women dressed as ducks tossing water balloons at the crowd.

We made our way down to the beach, ogling the weirdos at Muscle Beach and ducking into a few vendor stalls to check out t-shirts. After romping in the waves for a little under an hour, they returned to the blankets where we took a power nap under a hazy Venice sky. Before heading back to Eartha Kitt, the girls got henna tattoos, fretting the whole walk back to the car about how much their designs were smudging.

Next stop: The Grove and the historic Fairfax Farmers' Market, where we picked up some bread for our cheese, more cheese (fresh mozzarella), chips for the guac, and a few other sundries. We watched as crowds darted out of the way of the The Grove's two-story trolley ("A lawsuit waiting to happen," says my friend Justin), then headed to Hollywood and Highland, where las chicas stuck their fingers and feet in the prints of every movie star available, even the ones they didn't know. We saw Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta's stars just feet away from each other on the Walk of Fame (yesterday we passed Venice High School, which acted as Rydell High in both Grease films), strolled past the Kodak Theatre, peeked into the Babylonian Court, then headed to the shuttles, which chauffeured our tired butts up the hill to the Bowl. There las chicas learned what I meant about "stacked parking" and finally understood why I didn't want to park at the Bowl itself.

We picnicked outside the amphitheater, where I knew there would be more space than in the benches, then heard the warning shot of fireworks that announced the start of the show. After hiking further up the hill (they really should give us crampons), we found our seats and settled in for a brisk night under the Hollywood stars. I could tell the girls weren't thrilled by the classical first half, which was dedicated to John Wayne on his 100th birthday. Micaela even cracked, "They keep talking about this 'inspirational' guy, but I have no idea who he is," even though she had her hands in his prints only two hours earlier. I filled them in a bit on The Duke, then gave up when the second half was announced and "Who's Gene Autry?" became the new chant. I threatened them with watching old movies the rest of the trip if they didn't sit still the rest of the concert. They enjoyed the second half more, with Riders in the Sky, the slaphappy cowboy troupe who wrote songs for Toy Story ("Woody's Round-Up") and several other movies, and who had a better sense of humor than the wooden mannequin who'd hosted the first part. Jessica fell asleep towards the end but woke up to witness "the best fireworks ever" (per Micaela).

Needless to say, they were both asleep before the lights went out at home, their final words being, "Are we going to Disney tomorrow?" Uh, no.


Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

Las Super Chicas Invade LA (Los Angeles, Day 1)

Las chicas landed in the sweltering Valley, skipping LAX for the more compact Burbank airport. After relating their ordeal of the overly attentive woman in the seat next to them (and having said woman almost overhear), Micaela and Jessica mentioned how they'd never before walked off a plane onto the tarmac or seen an outdoor luggage carousel.

We headed over to It's a Wrap, a second-hand store that sells clothing from TV and movie sets, but it didn't have the clothes labeled with the stars who'd worn the duds so we left pretty quickly. A few miles later we were at the Disney lot, which was pretty empty since it was July 3, which meant no lines at the commissary store. We strolled past sound stages and various historical Disney sites, then realized our stomachs were rumbling. At first we considered getting Mexican, but then, not wanting to drive all the way to Venice before eating, I remembered my favorite Japanese curry restaurant, Blue Marlin.

Las chicas dove into the medium-spicy curry and liked the spaghetti with wild vegetables and soy-butter sauce, but their favorite was the creamy risotto. Jessica liked the sauce so much that she ate a mushroom covered in it, then went on to try bok choy. I thought they were stuffed to the gills, but somehow they still had room for tempura ice cream, which was polished off in a matter of seconds.

Across the street we explored the Japanese market, where the girls squealed when they saw all the crazy dried fish products. We bought some candy and fruit-flavored sodas, then headed to the grocery store to stock up for breakfast. The girls couldn't believe the size of Ralphs, and when I told them there are bigger supermarkets, their eyes grew wide. With our English muffins and fruit, we then headed home, since we were all pooped. Halfway through a movie (Overboard), we gave up and hit the hay, intent on getting a headstart on the next day.


Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio